Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'You will see the same thing in every other park in Delhi,' I answer and gently guide her to a corner bench which has just been vacated by a couple.

We sit down side by side. Ritu is still jumpy, as though expecting her father to pop up behind the next bush. I try to put her at ease. 'Don't worry. You won't see any of your family members here. At this time of the day the park is reserved only for lovers.'

She blushes and I gently take her hand in mine. She neither resists nor encourages me. I doubt whether she will allow me to kiss her in a public place, but this is the time to find out. I lean over and give her a gentle peck on the cheek, not so much a kiss as a probing gambit. She immediately covers her face with her hands, but I prise them open and discover that she is smiling shyly. I look her in the eye, wink and kiss her again, this time on the lips. She kisses me back. I taste the lipstick on her lips, inhale the perfume of her skin and discover that the rich even kiss differently. The warm, measured kiss from Ritu is quite unlike the slobbering mouth-lock I used to get from the mohalla girls. And the delicious tingling sensation it leaves in my mouth spreads all the way to my brain, dissolving all doubt and leaving me only with the heady feeling of success.

'I love you, Ritu,' I say with the earnest expression of a romantic hero.

'I love you too, Vijay,' she whispers, and then and there I feel like standing up and taking a bow. Not because this is the first time in my life that a girl has said these words to me. I've heard plenty of terms of endearment, but they were uttered by the dark, coarse girls from the Sanjay Gandhi slum, who smelt of cheap talcum powder and Boroline. To hear these words from the lips of a fair, svelte beauty who drives in a Mercedes and is protected by a commando is a different experience altogether. I decide to go for broke.

'Come, let us go somewhere more private.' I get up from the bench.

'Where to?' she asks.

'I know a good place.'

She does not demur as I lead her out of Lodhi Garden to a taxi stand. I can easily afford to take her to one of the deluxe five-star hotels, but they ask too many questions which might scare her off. Better to go to one of those cheap, nondescript hotels where the manager is not fussy and rooms are charged by the hour. 'Take us to Paharganj,' I tell the driver.

Decent Hotel is located in one of the narrow alleys of Paharganj, within walking distance of the railway station. A grey, threestoreyed building with fading plaster and a cracked sign-board, I realize soon enough that the only thing which inspires confidence about it is the name. The reception has mildewed walls and an atmosphere of fake cheer. The bellboys appraise Ritu and me from head to toe and go into a huddle. They begin conversing in low whispers, as though hatching some conspiracy against us. The manager leers at me in a knowing way when I ask for a room. 'One hour or one day?' he asks.

'One hour,' I say and he promptly charges me five hundred rupees and hands over a clunky key. 'Room 515, fifth floor. The lift is round the corner.'

I can sense Ritu's increasing discomfort as I usher her into the lift. Room Number 515 turns out to be at the fag end of the corridor and there are cockroaches scurrying across the frayed and dusty red carpet. I am already regretting my decision to come to this dump. But it is too late to backtrack. I open the door and am pleasantly surprised by its neat and efficient orderliness. There is a large double bed with a crisp white sheet and fluffy pillows. The walls are painted a pastel pink, matching Ritu's dress, and adorned with framed pictures of scenes from Delhi. There is even a wall clock, busy ticking the seconds. A small wooden desk and chair are placed near the far wall. The red curtains, made of some kind of rough fabric, look brand new but are not thick enough to keep out the ambient sounds of traffic and trade. The lingering smell of a faint rose perfume enters my nose, either left behind by the previous occupants or sprayed by the management as a romantic touch. But the icing on the cake is the packet of Nirodh condoms left discreetly on the lower shelf of the bedside table.

Locking the door behind me, I take Ritu in my arms. She accepts my embrace willingly but there is a new stiffness in her body. She grimaces slightly as I kiss her again on the lips, more hungrily this time.

My hands get rid of her chunni and commence their descent down her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her kameez. She begins shivering as I unbutton her shirt and lift it over her head, uncovering her from the waist up. Only a white lace bra remains and its sight serves only to inflame me further. That is when Ritu does a peculiar thing. She does not try to stop me, does not demurely cover her chest with her hands; she simply starts sobbing. I have been with enough girls to suspect that her tears are not so much a mark of protest as an appeal for caution – this is probably her first time – yet they make me distraught. I know I can ignore this minor hiccup and continue my conquest. But Ritu seems so utterly defenceless, her face so guileless, that my raging desire begins to seem crass and vulgar. Taking advantage of her would be as reprehensible as taking a coin from a blind beggar. So I wipe her tears with my fingers and hand back her kameez. Then, fully clothed, we sit down on the bed and simply hold hands. I don't remember for how long we do this, but a curious change begins to come over me. Gradually my eyes lose focus. They don't see the bed and the headboard and the walls and the pictures. My ears stop registering all sounds. They don't hear the honks of the auto-rickshaws, the cries of the fruit-sellers or the screeching of crows. As the clock ticks off the seconds, all I notice is the slight trembling of my skin and the warm beating of my heart. I look into Ritu's moist eyes and feel as if the whole world is contained in their glistening depths.

The spell is broken only by incessant knocking on the door. 'Time is up, Sir. We need the room back,' I hear the manager's voice.

Glancing at the clock, it is a shock to discover that we have been in the room for over an hour. I get up quickly from the bed and unlock the door. The manager seems apologetic but it is the sight of a maid, armed with a fresh sheet, which brings me up short. I hear the sound of the lift opening and a middle-aged couple steps into the corridor, probably the next hourly tenants of the room. The man, dressed like an office clerk, sniggers at me; the woman, heavy set, but fashionably dressed in trousers and shirt, giggles like an adolescent schoolgirl as Ritu and I pass her, her face shining with unrestrained longing.

The encounter with this lusty-eyed couple shames me. But it makes Ritu clutch my hand with a fierce new possessiveness.

When we step back into the street dusk is falling, draping the surroundings in a misty grey light. The quiet murmur of the afternoon has given way to the din of evening traffic, the cacophony of car horns and the revving of bus engines on the main road.

'I am late,' Ritu frets. 'I must return immediately or Ram Singh will come looking for me.'

'When will I see you again?'

'I don't know. I am going back to Lucknow tonight.'

'But how will I live without seeing you?' I cry.

'Love doesn't end just because we don't see each other,' she replies.

'At least give me some idea of when you will return to Delhi.'

'In three weeks. Just in time for my birthday.'

'Your birthday? When is it?'

'On the tenth of March.'

'Then I must get you a present.'

'But you have already given me a present.'

'What are you saying?' I ask, mystified. 'I have not given you anything.'

She smiles. 'You have given me the best possible gift. You have given me respect. See you soon, Vijay.' She gently squeezes my hand in a goodbye gesture and gets into an auto-rickshaw.